Capitol Murder

by William Bernhardt

  Eventually both sides used up their peremptories. After that, they had to come up with a good reason to remove a juror, persuasive arguments why an answer indicated bias. And they found that Judge Herndon was not easily persuaded. Maybe it was his usual resistance to prolonged jury selection; maybe it was because he knew the eyes of the world were on him and he was determined not to come off as a Judge Ito who let the lawyers push him around. Either way, eventually the questions and the challenges bottomed out and they had twelve jurors and four alternates.

  “Opening statements at nine A.M. sharp,” the judge informed them. Then he thanked the jurors for their cooperation and gave them detailed preliminary instructions. They would be sequestered for the length of the trial.

  “What do you think?” Ben asked as he returned to the defendant’s table. “Did we get a good jury?”

  “I think you did the best you could with what we drew,” Christina said.

  “What does that mean?” Glancy asked. “Do they like me or are they going to hang me out to dry?”

  “My name’s Christina, not Sibyl,” she replied. “The outcome will depend on what happens when the witnesses take the stand.”

  “I still don’t understand why we couldn’t ask if the jurors were Republicans or Democrats,” Glancy groused. “That’s the most important question-certainly the most relevant. And the judge never asked it.”

  “Because it is totally impermissible, even in this case,” Ben answered. “There are about a hundred cases on point. Courts have to follow precedent-previous rulings on the same issue. Even the Supreme Court.”

  “So you’re telling me the Supreme Court followed precedent when they butted into the 2000 election and made Dubya the leader of the free world?”

  Ben turned his eyes toward his legal pad. “Let’s stay focused on the case at hand, shall we?”

  Of all the two-bit gin joints in the world, Loving mused to himself, this was about the only one Ben hadn’t already sent him to-always in the hope of rooting out the truth by exploiting Loving’s knack for worming information out of the bottom-feeders of society. Ben didn’t like bars, had a coughing fit whenever someone lit up, and couldn’t lie to save his soul, so he needed someone else to handle these assignments. Loving got that. But someday he was going to draw the line. That day would not be today, however. He wasn’t going to pass this one up just because of the décor.

  Which was actually quite nice, as it turned out, a step up from the usual haunts he ventured into in search of unfound knowledge. Martin’s Tavern, in Georgetown on Wisconsin Avenue, was a national landmark dating back to 1933. The look of the place appealed to Loving-lots of dark stained wood, very colonial, from the booths to the long oak bar that flanked the north wall. And the waiters wore distinguished green jackets-pretty swank for a tavern.

  Loving scanned the clientele as he passed through the building. Looked like a sports bar, except he saw a lot of people who might actually be capable of playing a sport rather than simply watching one on the tube from behind a mountain of six-packs. He wouldn’t mind stepping up to the bar for a quick quaff himself, but not while he was on duty. He had to keep his wits about him. As he’d learned long ago-when you’re working one of Ben’s cases, you should prepare for the unexpected. Which was of course, by definition, impossible.

  He found the rear door and the alleyway his mysterious informant had mentioned without any trouble. It was dark and squalid and had a penetrating stench. Loving didn’t know how often the garbage was collected back here, but it wasn’t often enough. He kept tripping over trash can lids or stepping into squishy lumps he couldn’t identify, which was probably just as well. The alley seemed to cut through the better part of a city block, but most of the back doors weren’t labeled, so he had no way of knowing which one might lead to the purported escort service, much less to the mysterious Lucille. He might still be walking back and forth in that alley if he hadn’t spotted a man exiting quickly from one of the doors, hitching and adjusting his pants as he walked, a euphoric smile on his face.

  Ah, Loving thought. One of those kinds of escort services.

  He knocked on the door, wondering if he needed a secret knock or handshake. Fortunately, that didn’t prove necessary. The door opened a crack. A pair of dark female eyes became just barely visible. “Yeah?”

  “I’m here to see Lucille,” Loving replied.

  “Does she know you’re coming?”

  “Darn! I forgot to call ahead. But-”

  “She isn’t seeing any more clients tonight.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe if you asked, she-”

  “I’m sure. She… had a bad experience. Asked for the rest of the night off. But we have other escorts on duty tonight. What are your requirements?”

  “My… uh, requirements?”

  “What exactly were you looking for? We have other redheads. Other large-breasted women. Much larger, in fact.”

  Loving squirmed. “No, it, uh, has to be Lucille.”

  The crack in the door began to narrow. “Try again another night, cowboy. If you want to avoid disappointment, make an appointment.”

  Loving thrust his toe forward, stopping the door.

  The woman’s face turned cold. “Look, buddy, I’m not alone here. You may think you’re hot stuff, but I’ve got three guys inside just as big as you who’ll rip your-”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Loving assured her. “I just gotta talk to Lucille.”

  “Then come back another night. There’s no way-”

  “Tell her it’s about Amber.” It was a shot in the dark, but he had to try something. “Tell her I’m looking for Amber.”

  The two coal-black eyes in the narrow slit stared at him for a long moment. A good thirty seconds passed before Loving heard the sound of the door chain being released.

  “You can come inside. But stay in the lobby. I’ll ask Lucille if she’s up to it.” She held up a finger. “You better not be screwing with us.”

  “Gosh, no,” Loving said. “I wouldn’t dream of… trying to screw with someone here. At the escort service.”

  She gave him another long look. “Back in sixty seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”

  Senator Glancy had recommended the Four Georges at the Georgetown Inn for dinner; he’d even made the reservation himself on Ben’s cell phone and told the maître d’ to put it on his tab. He wasn’t attending himself, since the federal marshals collected him as soon as the jury was dismissed, but Ben and Christina opted to take his recommendation-and his free meal. They were seated in the elegant and somewhat exclusive George II room-apparently senators had pull in this town, even when they were currently residing in a holding cell. The room was decorated in a desert motif: palm trees, or something that looked like them, brick-laid walls painted a sandy hue and ornamented with several variegated mosaics. They didn’t have to sit on the carpet or wear turbans, but the low tables and the belly-dancing music still conveyed the desired ambience.

  “Heard anything from Loving?” Christina asked. She had changed into a turquoise dress with a hip-hugging waist that was positively lovely. Even some nice bling-a faux pearl necklace and earrings.

  “Barely.” Ben was wearing the same suit he’d had on all day. Of course, he had only three, and the dry cleaning at the Watergate wasn’t that speedy, so he couldn’t afford to be extravagant. “He did leave me a message. Thinks he’s got some kind of lead on Veronica Cooper’s friends.”

  “’Bout damn time, as my father used to say.” She flagged the waiter and asked him to refill her club soda. “You know how little we’ve got, and the prosecution has a mound of evidence. Not to mention public opinion-a general populace predisposed to convict. Everyone commentator and quidnunc in the city is talking about this case.”

  “Because of the video?”

  “Because this is a nation where news has been supplanted by gossip. Because most people would rather think the worst of their elected officials than the best.”

  “The
re is that…”

  “And I don’t care what the judge says in court. As soon as the jurors see that video, in its full and unexpurgated form, the burden of proof will be on us.”

  “We don’t have to prove he’s a hero. Or even a nice guy. We just have to prove he’s not a murderer. I think we should all but ignore the video, admit the affair. Focus on the murder, the forensic evidence, the bizarre appearance of the corpse in the hideaway. Glancy’s alibi.”

  “Padolino will do his darnedest to bust that alibi.”

  “Just the same, that’s where we should concentrate our energy. That’s where Padolino has some holes in his case. We should make the most of it.” He fidgeted with his fork. “Did I mention… that’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing tonight. Have I seen it before?”

  She flashed her usual fulgent smile. “This is what I always wear when we go someplace nice.”

  “So that would mean…”

  “You’ve seen it twice.”

  “Well… it looks… particularly nice tonight.” He wanted to slap himself. Ben, you smooth talker. More talk like that and she’ll be putty in your hands.

  “You’re sweet. But I’ve had it for years. It’s getting worn. I should go shopping.”

  “Well, we are in DC. After the case is over…”

  “Maybe if we win. And you actually collect a fee this time.”

  “Christina…”

  “Just joshing, partner.” She reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You know I care nothing about monetary gain. Why else would I work with you?”

  “I think our only danger is that Glancy will spend too much on associated counselors. How many people are technically a part of this defense team now?”

  “I think we’re up to ten, counting the local counsel that have been assisting on the paperwork and document review, the DNA expert, and the appeals expert.”

  “Both of whom are totally unnecessary at this time.”

  She nodded her agreement. “My theory is that Glancy wants to have more lawyers than O. J. and Jacko combined. It’s an ego thing. And if he can afford it…”

  “Whatever. Just so they’re invisible in the courtroom. I don’t want the jury to get the idea Glancy is trying to buy his way out of trouble.” He glanced at the list in the center of the table. “Did you want some wine?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Does this mean the Four Georges doesn’t stock chocolate milk?”

  “Très amusing. I just thought you might like a little stress-reducer.” And as a matter of fact, yes, the waiter had whispered to him earlier that there was no chocolate milk, but she didn’t need to hear that. What she needed to hear… well, he knew perfectly well what she needed to hear. So why wasn’t he able to say it? “You know, Christina, I really… really appreciate your help on this case. You were invaluable in the courtroom today.”

  “That’s what partners do.”

  “Read jurors’ minds?”

  “They complete each other. Make a whole greater than the sum of the parts. That’s true for… all kinds of partners.”

  Well that was unsubtle, even for Christina, the Queen of Blunt. Ben cleared his throat and fiddled nervously with the menu until the waiter blessedly reappeared.

  The menu selections were extremely rarefied for Ben’s taste, but he managed to order something he was pretty sure involved beef; Christina had the grilled salmon. After they’d given their order and the waiter poured the Beaujolais, Ben pitched various approaches to his opening statement to Christina. She didn’t like any of them. Too defensive, too exculpatory. The trick was to remind the jurors that this was about murder, not sex; to direct them to disregard the video without appearing to make excuses for it. “If I were you,” she advised, “I’d just come straight out the first time I addressed them and say-”

  “Excuse me.”

  Ben looked up and saw a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper goatee standing next to the table beneath one of the pseudo-palm trees. He was staring at Ben with a crazed, walleyed expression. Ben didn’t know who the man was, but he was certain he’d seen him in the courtroom earlier. “Yes?”

  “Are you two the lawyers defending Thomas Glancy?”

  “We’re the lead trial counsel, yes.” Ben pondered. Reporter? Police officer? Autograph hound? “We’re working in affiliation with a number of-”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “Uh, I’m… sorry, no.”

  “Maybe this will refresh your memory?” Before Ben had a chance to react, the man had grabbed Ben’s wineglass and flung the drink into his face.

  Ben reared backward, blinking, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. Great, he thought, now I’m down to two suits. Christina started to rise, probably planning to slug him, but Ben waved her back into her seat. The last thing they needed was salacious publicity on the eve of trial.

  “So,” Ben said, looking up at him, “you’re… my dry cleaner?”

  “I’m Darrin Cooper-Veronica Cooper’s father, you son of a bitch.” He spoke with such venom that spittle flew from his teeth. “Isn’t it interesting that you didn’t know? You’ve spent months looking for anything that might get that goddamn rapist off the hook, but you never bothered to talk to the victim’s family.”

  “Actually,” Christina interjected, “I did contact Ms. Cooper’s family almost immediately after we took the case. I spoke to her mother; her sister declined to be interviewed.” She paused. “I was told that Veronica was raised in DC by her mother-that her parents were divorced and her father lived on the other coast and hadn’t seen her for years.”

  “What the hell difference does that make?” He glared at Christina, bitter and angry. Ben not-so-subtly moved her wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “She was still my little girl.”

  Ben tried to sound comforting. “Sir, I’ve never had children myself, but I can only imagine how devastating it must be to lose one.”

  “Don’t give me that fake sympathetic bullshit. I won’t take it from the man who’s defending my little Ronnie’s killer.”

  “Sir, you don’t know that.”

  “The hell I don’t. Everyone in the country knows it.”

  “If I’ve learned anything in my years of practice, it’s that appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Don’t try to bullshit me. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me. You think I don’t know why that monster hired you, Mr. Fancy High-Dollar Lawyer?”

  Christina stifled a guffaw.

  “You think I don’t know what goes on in courtrooms? Listen to me, buddy. I know the way the world works. I’ve watched Court TV.”

  “I can understand your anger, sir. But I have to think that, deep down in your heart, you don’t want revenge. You want to know the truth.”

  “I know the truth!” he bellowed, more than loud enough to attract the attention of the guests at the three other tables in the room, not to mention their waiter and the maître d’. Both were hovering on the fringe of the George II room, unsure how to handle the disturbance. “I know that goddamn rapist killed my little girl!”

  “Look,” Ben said. He was starting to lose some patience himself. He’d come here to plot strategy, not to deal with importunate relatives of the deceased. “I’m sure you didn’t like what you saw in the video, but there is no evidence that their relationship was not consensual. To the contrary, it was obvious from her attire and manner and language that she was welcoming sex. She just didn’t-”

  “You filthy pervert!” He lunged. Ben dove out of his chair. Cooper narrowly missed him, smashing the wicker chair, then crashing to the floor.

  That was more than enough opening for the maître d’ to intervene, assisted by two large men who were either bouncers or the burliest guys this classy joint could find on the premises. They laid their hands firmly on Cooper’s shoulders, raised him to his feet, and dragged him away. He was dazed, but not so much that he couldn’t speak. “My little girl would never do that for anyone. He must’ve forced h
er to dress like that. Must’ve had some kind of hold on her. She would never act that way. Never!”

  He continued ranting, all the way through the George III and the George Washington rooms, until happily Ben could hear him no more.

  “Think he represents the viewpoint of the general populace,” Ben asked, “or just those immediately related to the victim?”

  “Let’s hope the latter,” Christina said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just glad he didn’t meet us in a dark alley somewhere. Which would’ve been the logical thing to do,” he added, pausing thoughtfully, “if his goal really had been to hurt me.”

  The inside of the escort service was disappointingly bland-sparse and functional. Where was the red wallpaper, the overstuffed sofa, the piano player with a garter around his upper arm? Bordellos just weren’t what they used to be. Or weren’t what they used to be in John Wayne movies, at any rate. Lucille’s room was equally inadequate-no lace, no vibrating or rotating bed, no mirrors on the ceiling. Resembled nothing on earth so much as a thirty-dollar room at a Ramada Inn. All very disappointing…

  Except for Lucille herself. Lucille did not disappoint.

  She was, as advertised, a large-bosomed woman, but then she was large all around. Not fat, but no petite supermodel, which was okay by Loving. He preferred women who still remembered how to use a knife and fork. She had huge curly red hair, like Christina’s times three, done up in a sort of B-52 style all on the top of her head. She had wrapped a bathrobe around herself before he came in. Judging from the lines under the terry-cloth robe-or relative lack thereof-he adjudged that there was not much in the way of clothing on her. She was young, maybe thirty, but there was a profound weariness about her eyes. Loving guessed that she’d been plying this trade for half her short life.